Burnt Horizon
by Phazez0rz
Summary: A Power-writing that didn't get too far.


A mere power-writing for naught.

Prologue

A lone dark figure slinked through the thin, serpentine stone foot path that outlined the outskirts of the Tarsis Marketplace, Scattered and lonely rays from the intense Tarsis sun penetrating through layer after layer of dark cloud, the dust from the old and abandoned stalls now illuminated through the air. The place was a rotting shell of what it once was, brightly colored fliers now dirtied and dampened with dark water, a mellowed wind blowing from the left, sending the papers a blow. Stalls were stamped on the pathway to the left of the figure, each one stained with rust in its own special place, with rotted wood frames holding the scrap pieces of fabric the merchants would call a roof together, the Fabric so thin from wear the sun could penetrate it with even the faintest of rays. The fabric, littered with rips and tears throughout the epicenter of the scraps, was slightly longer than the stall, leaving parts of it drooping and swaying in the wind, lightly at first but slowly switching to a mood of much more ferocity, the fabric occasionally ripping off of the rusted and feeble staples tiered to the damp and rotting wood. Along the square base of the stalls, usually made with a resilient plastic or wood -with some flaunting their feeble fortune by using re-enforced steel covered with holographic projections used to sell their wares- were littered with various holes of irregular size and shape, some natural to the wood, most remnants of the harsh battlefield with place had become in years past. All along the back wall of the stalls, assuming there were any back walls to be had amongst them, were littered many shattered pieces of glass, the wood around them stained with whatever liquid they might have at once contained. Some stalls were left with rotten meat, drooping over the shelf, flies buzzing all along it trying to attain any nutrition from it, all the blood dried from it in the hot Tarsin Star (sun?), the air around it tainted with a rotten and unpleasant smell, the traveler's nose cringing and wrinkling upwards at any permeable scent that passed his way.

He walked with a slight limp with every odd step, his right leg stammering a bit each time, causing his body to lean over and lose its balance every so often, the dull and dirtied metal providing a shield to his oft neglected leg glistening dimly in the pale sunlight, clanking with every step he took, resonating through the silent marketplace. He was dressed in a black flight suit, his body no doubt heated through the re-enforced cloth fabric, which tightly encompassed his relatively large body. He stood at about six feet, two inches, with fair brown hair falling below his right eye in a triangular layer, stray strands of hair getting caught in the wind and blowing affray. His eyes were a light blue color, the pattern inside of the pupil mildly reminiscent of a snowflake, with a lone black dot in the middle, of fair size, keenly watching the man's surroundings as it seemed to nervously twitch in minute movements frequently, as if in fear of an impending doom.

The man had a fair face, with a small amount of black stubble dotting the lower portion of his rounded chin, smooth when pressed upon in a downward motion, but sharp when pressing upon it in the opposite direction. It [The hair] was resilient to the wind, only moving slightly to the side with each soft gust. His lips were a nice pink hue, though seemed to be quite dry from the air, showing cracks in the skin, breaking up the monotony. His nose was that of a Roman stature, jutting out only slightly from his forehead so as to not seem too unsightly when viewed from the side. Upon his oft covered forehead was a small scar, going from the upper-middle portion of the left side of his face and flowing downwards in a straight line for about three centimeters, the blood from the scar drying into a dark brown color (Fix this later), stopping at his dark brown, bushy eyebrows. His rather full and healthy face was that of fair complexion, sporting no real blemishes save for the odd bruise upon his cheek, turning a dismal purple, or the small, oval shaped scab hiding behind his rather short neck.

His arms, though hidden through the steel-enforced cloth fabric (The steel is like, underneath the cloth, or something like steel.), were toned and muscular, though not to the point of extremes, that the structure of them seemed to protrude through the fabric, each toned muscle giving off a new bulge, though not in a manner that would seem unsightly (Fix this as soon as possible).

Farther and farther the traveler walked, exiting out of the Tarsian marketplace into a realm of only sand, the wind growing harsher and harsher, loose grains of sand billowing up into the Traveler's bare face, irritating his eyes and deeply hindering his vision of the path ahead. The traveler looked left and right, only seeing billowing hills of Sand everywhere, a puzzling sight for one who had just walked through an area that has seemed at once teeming with life. The man turned around quickly to his left, his hair now growing more and more sandier as the grains flew in at an alarming rate. Faster and faster the winds blew, and the traveler, desperate to escape this maddening world, covered his face with his arm and ran as fast as he could, stammering becoming more and more frequently as he was panting for breath, seeing no end to this horrific nightmare on the horizon. Faster and faster he tried to run, but only slower he became, his metallic cover from his leg loosening it's grip, red liquid oozing from it constantly as the traverler's left leg (or was it the right leg that was repaired?) ceased to transport his body further. On the verge of death, Johnathan Adam Thrace collapsed on the floor, cluching his now gaping hole in his right leg, the blood pouring through the cracks of his fingers and onto the sand below, turning it a deep red hue. He screamed in pain, wallowing in it as much as he could. He frequently rolled from left to right as the sand continued to blow at a steadier rate, the sand forming an encasing around Johnathan, a coffin in a desolate desert, it'd seem. Johnathan continued to scream in pain, though this time from the thought of dying in such a terrible manner as he was now. 'Please!' he struggled to say, coughing up sand as it overpowered him. Filling him with dread at his cirumstances, Johnathan closed his eyes and only wished to be back where he knew he thought he belonged….

And then, seemingly miraculously, the once-raining grains of sand turned into droplets of water, the surrounding area repeating this action as gallon upon gallon of water rushed down Johnathan's body, his suit turning a much darker color than before due to the moisture. He breathed in deeply and quickly, trying to make up for all the oxygen he had lost in the transitions from sand to Water. He layed there on the ground, with his arm extended behind him, and he looked at his right leg, as the droplets of water reflected beams of light into small rainbows around him,

Chapter I: Intro (+Apocalypse Please)

Jonathan Adama Thrace awoke from his rather disturbed sleep, his head laying to its side in a cradle built by his angled elbows, resting on a small and metallic cold desk, his long brown hair drooping below eye level in layers as he slowly and painfully rose his head from its rest, letting out a slight groan as he stretched his right arm, only to angle it again at the elbow to wipe the saliva hanging off of his lower lip, letting out a sigh as he did so, his head still half-asleep, drooping down. He crinkled his nose up and down quickly, letting out and inhaling a breath through his nostril's rather slowly (Find alternatives for saying slowly all the time), shaking his head in an attempt to wake up, his eyes blinking quickly from the quick, and seemingly blinding light that was protruding from the damp and dusty windowsills hanging above him. His eyes were red, his arms constantly rubbing them, only adding to the irritation. Once more he let out a sign, his mouth closed, shaking his head so as to push his hair back, at which point he ruffled through it with his hands, the greasy texture causing him to proceed to wipe the thick, sticky substance on his pant leg, swiping his hands up and down quickly, a slight swish being heard, had anyone been close enough to hear it. Once Jonathan had repeated certain aspects of this routine, going to a small cup of water sitting on the desk he rested on to wash his eyes of any foreign substance, blinking them rapidly and rubbing them to be sure to erase any of the water, so as to prevent any serious irritation. After this, he let out a deep breath, and surveyed his surroundings.

He was in a damp room, though large, with concrete making the four walls, ceiling, and flooring cold to the touch, small particles of dust residue from the room, sticking to one's finger if he were to press hard enough on any of the brick. Two small, rectangular windows were placed on the left side of the building, about 10 feet up, their dirtied translucence showcasing the light in a pale yellow color, small particles of dust, invisible under most circumstances, appearing through the focused beams of light, floating aimlessly from one side of the room to the other. At the far end of the long, rectangular concrete block stood a single metallic door, what insignia that dwelt upon it once ago scratched and faded with brown rust and gunshots, echoing the ever present feeling of the past conflicts. The door was about 8 feet tall and four feet wide, patches of white and black dotting it from the previously mentioned insignia, with a rotating handle mechanism sitting in the middle of it, with 4 steel cylindrical prongs jutting out of it, cool to the touch unless placed in direct sunlight. Rotating the handle in the correct positions four consecutive times would unlock each portion of the lock, a barely-audible clicking sound resonating through the steel, though only to those who had the soft tissue of their ear pressed firmly upon the metal. Upon the ground were littered various pieces of paper, each brittle to the touch, and stained a dark yellow color from the small droplets of water rhythmically dripping from the rotting wooden rafters into small pools below. Jonathan's desk, sitting in the far back of the room, facing the only door so as to allow complete privacy when working, was the work of a mediocre artisan, with the scorch marks adorning the sections of the desk where parts were combined – One for each attachment from the leg to the body- in a prideful manner, a rich black color and the faint smell of ash highlighting the drab dull silver of the desk, a color that would, under no circumstance, decided upon itself even a glimmer of light upon it. The desk itself was full of half-destroyed papers, via environmental wear or though force of anger, with a majority of the pages split unevenly in two or three pieces because of the former. Upon the upper right hand corner of the desk stood a solid black frame, about 5 inches high by 3 inches wide, a thick black rim encasing the clear pane of thin glass. Inside of the frame was a patch, circular in shape with a 6 inch diameter. Upon it were inscribed the words 'For Liberty, for Honor, for Skaborr' written in a bold white lettering, clashing with the dark blue of the circle. It was made with a rather resilient fabric, intertwined so carefully so as to be able to stand the rigors of combat. Upon the upper left hand corner stood a stack of carefully-strewn about papers, each askew from the one above it, some drooping downwards from the weight being pushed upon them from the upper levels. Both of the lower corners as well as the middle of the desk had been cleared, so as to form a space for Johnathans elbows to rest upon, the outline of the shape still visible through the immense clutter. Johnathan continued to stand, pushing his metallic chair backwards, the chair screeching as it clashed with the rough of the concrete, slowly giving way and pulling back. Jonathan rubbed his eyes once more, letting out a deep closed mouth moan as he did, thrashing his head to the left, allowing the hair to pool over upon that side in a more natural manner. 'Phew, alright.' Jonathan mumbled to himself, angling his elbows and placing his hands on his hips, looking around at the 'room' around him, his eyes slowly adjusting to the increase in light. 'Well,' he began again, this time more loudly, with a sarcastic attitude, (be sure to add him thrusting his hands upward and then slamming them back on his hips, and describe the sound) 'Let's get to work.' He turned a sharp left, so as to round the desk, griding upon it as he rounded the last corner, then proceeded to walk forward, towards the door, passing under the illuminated light. He had walked about 30 paces when he hear the slight creaking of the door in front of him, his eyes growing wide as his jaw opened slightly and slowly. He bent his knees down at a slight angle, and hung his arms sideways and low, anticipating a hostile visitor. Slowly Jonathan heard a second click, and grew tenser, sweat starting to drip from his brown as he stood on edge, his eyes flickering constantly in every direction. Jonathan braced himself, turning his body slightly to the left, waiting in breathless anticipation for the third click. Years seemed to pass by without a trace, Jonathan seemingly seeing himself aging as each moment passed on, his body growing weaker and weaker as the adrenaline from his body was flushed out of him. His body slowly started to droop downwards, followed by his head and ending with his eyes, the hair covering them blocking his vision. Then he heard a third click coming from the door, and just as soon as the adrenaline had been flushed out of him it had returned in a much stronger force, Jonathan quickly resuming position, and then turned even moreso to his left, bracing his legs as he hurriedly counted down in his head. 3….2…..1.. He leaned off of his feet and dove straight for the desk, jumping upon it face-first and quickly flipping himself over, all the while flipping the papers affray while reaching for something of much more value. He breathed deeply and frequently as his mass fell over the desk and onto a fluttering stack of papers, breaking his fall. He quickly got up and rummaged through the items, crouching down as he did so, his eyes scanning the ground around him. In a flurry of motion, he rose a piece of paper from the ground and heard a large clanking as a small black object fell a few inches to the ground, the sound echoing through Jonathan's ears, as he scrambled to pick it up before the fourth click of the lock. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he cradled the object in his hands, his mouth opening in a half-laughing manner, though the voice was silent. It was a black object, 'L' shaped, when you flipped it the right way, the longer stalk of it showcasing a small barrel, about 4 (maybe less, my calculations are off) centimeters in diameter, and hollow. A thin, small, reversed L shape seemed to attach the two stalks of the gun together, a small, rounded trigger being housed inside of the smaller 'L'. The handle of the gun was pattered with raised diamond shapes, allowing more grip in exchange for a slightly more comfortable design. Upon the top of the barrel, towards the front (or end), was a small line of black metal, about 1 centimeter high, used for aiming, though it wasn't always the best tool to use when shooting from a relative distance.

The door opened slowly, the metal of it grating with the concrete, the sound echoing through the room at a high frequency, snapping Jonathan – his back facing the door- out of his trance, his eyes darting to the opposite edges of each eye, trying to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Jonathan's brow wrinkled, the sweat filling the small trenches the overlapping skin would make, stopping it from overflowing onto his face. He breathed heavily as the door continued to open, stopping occasionally, only to be pushed harder upon the concrete, as if resisting to open to save Jonathan from impending doom. Jonathan quickly stirred up, and thrust his body sideways, allowing him to turn his head to the side so as to see the intruder with his own eyes. He lowered his head slightly and slowly raised his left arm up to shoulder height, the hand grasping a black pistol tightly. His eyes were focused down the sight of the weapon, which in turn was focused at the door, now about halfway opened, thin locks of black, greasy hair being able to be seen. Jonathan stood there, counting down in his head from 10, slowly, changing the position of his arm with each number he called out, only to re-calibrate it back to its original position before the next number could be called. His hair began to droop down to his eyes once more, obscuring his vision as the doors slid open another quarter. Jonathan, growing more tense with the situation, hurried his count to an almost incomprehensible slur by the time he reached zero. He braced himself for the trigger pull and fired, a solid burst of flame rupturing from the weapon as the bullet flew through the air.

It wasn't more than second before the bullet had made contact with the concrete wall to the left of the door, leaving a small black mark around the diameter of a small, round hole left by the bullet, a thin, wispy trail of smoke rising from the burnt concrete, a charred smell dissipating into the still air of the room


End file.
